


Walk With Me

by tahirire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s04e08 Wishful Thinking, Gen, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-11
Updated: 2008-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:56:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahirire/pseuds/tahirire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Sam wouldn't understand doesn't mean he can't help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk With Me

Walk With Me

“You wouldn’t understand. And I could never _make_ you understand. So … I _am_ sorry.” Dean holds his gaze for a fraction of a second before breaking the spell, jagged shards of pain glittering in his eyes, too much.

Sam watches his brother turn away, and he can feel his heart pounding like it wants to jump right out of his chest.

And he’s furious. But not with Dean.

He watches Dean’s retreat down the boardwalk, and he feels his fists clench at his sides. Words that would have been meaningless anyway die a slow, painful death in his throat.

Sam can see the stiffness in Dean’s gait, sense the despair emanating from his brother in waves, and he’s never been more sure of anything in his life than he is in this one moment; Lilith’s gonna feel the pain that Dean felt.

Decision made, he strides to catch up to Dean. His longer legs make up the space easily without hurrying, and he falls into a cadence with his brother, one step behind to give him a little space. Dean doesn’t turn to him, doesn’t regard him in any way – but the lines of tension in his shoulders ease. Sam relaxes in turn.

He may not understand Hell, but he knows how Dean feels anyway. He knows what it is to have a burden that no one else can help to bear.

But Sam can do more. His fists unclench, but he can feel the venomous tingle of power in the pads of his fingertips. He smiles in grim satisfaction.

Lilith is going to burn, and Sam’s going to do it himself.

~*~

The first night, problem now out in the open, Dean decides there’s no point downplaying the drinking anymore. Right now he’s sitting on his bed, right on the edge, practically vibrating with nerves. He holds out an imploring hand.

“Nightcap, Sammy. C’mon.” He puts on his most sincere _pleeeease_ face, and, jaw twitching, Sam caves.

“Fine, but Dean, you need –“

Dean’s face shuts down, but his voice is soft quiet control. “I know,” he whispers. His eyes focus on something that Sam can’t see, and his skin pales just enough for Sam to notice. He sounds like he’s speaking to someone else. “I know.”

Sam hands him the whisky without a word, puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Dean stares at the bottle in his hand, doesn’t look up.

That’s ok. Sam doesn’t need him to say anything.

“Get some sleep. I’ll be here.”

Without waiting for a reply, Sam heads for the bathroom and starts the shower running. He’s tired, but he stays until the water is ice cold.

Dean wouldn’t want Sam to see him drink himself to sleep.

~*~

They fall into a routine for a while. At night, after Dean is sound asleep, Sam hangs the dream catchers. They aren’t the most powerful magic, but they seem to help. Sam gets up early to take them down; Dean doesn’t need to know.

When Dean is sleeping, unguarded, if Sam concentrates, he can feel what Dean feels. He’s always been sensitive, and he’s always been connected to his brother, so he isn’t really surprised the first time it happens.

He sits on his own bed, eyes closed, and rides the waves of terror with Dean. He concentrates on calming his brother’s breathing, slowing his frantic heart. Some nights he thinks he’s able to pull Dean back from the edge, just a little.

It takes time, but eventually Dean stops reaching for the bottle first thing in the morning.

~*~

It’s in the car that Dean seems the most like himself. Not that he doesn’t hide it well, but Sam feels it anyway, he always could, and it’s in the car that Dean’s anxiety goes quiet. Sam listens as Dean sings along to his tapes, joins in every time it’s expected, and keeps his own worries to himself.

Some days Dean seems alright, but even though his brother is the strongest man he’s ever even _heard_ of, Sam doesn’t let his guard down for a second.

Whatever Dean went through, whatever he’s dealing with, it was because of Sam that it happened. He didn’t ask for it but he’s sure as Hell not going to run away from it now.

~*~

After Dean got sick back in Rock Ridge, almost like they had a meeting and decided it was time, the physical distance between them that had built up since Dean came back vanished.

Sam doesn’t remember exactly when he noticed it, Dean’s shoulder bumping into his when they walked, Dean plopping down at his side on park benches, Dean’s boots brushing up against his underneath booths at diners.

They’ve always been comfortable being close. It’s part of the hunt; moving in tandem, anticipating, covering each other, talking without speaking. But Dean’s never been the one seeking contact before, not like he is now.

They’re in downtown Philly working a case when, with a start, Sam realizes why.

“So this judge we gotta talk to, what’s his name …” Dean cants his head up towards Sam’s in query and pauses on the steps of the courthouse, question forgotten.

“Uh … Reynolds,” Sam supplies, buried in the newspaper in his hands. Two steps up the stairs and he realizes something’s missing. “…Dean?”

Dean is frozen in place, and Sam follows his gaze to the rooftop; a weathered, twisted gargoyle perches there, malice carved in stone, crouching, waiting to pounce.

Sam slides smoothly back down to Dean, pushing his tall profile in between his brother and the monster. Dean startles visibly before focusing on Sam, and Sam sees a slight red tinge start to creep into his brother’s cheeks.

“You know, like Mal.” Sam says, picking up like nothing ever happened. He waits patiently for Dean’s shaken brain to catch up with him.

Dean squints, frowns in confusion, but only for a second. “From Firefly? Awesome.” He gets that far-away, slightly pervy look in his eyes, and Sam laughs, knowing what’s coming next. “Damn, his wife was hot,” Dean mutters.

“Uh-huh.” Sam makes a show of rolling his eyes, takes his place at Dean’s side, and they’re moving again, Dean matching step for step.

When they cross under the shadow of the gargoyle, if Dean presses in just a little closer to Sam, Sam doesn’t mind.

~*~

Dean pauses in the bathroom door at the next motel, towel in hand, and looks back in Sam’s general direction, studying the carpet at Sam’s feet. He clears his throat, and Sam looks up from his book, waiting.

“Uh … Sammy?” It’s a question, but also a plea, and Sam knows the tone. He knows to not interrupt, to be patient.

“Yeah?”

“I, uh –“ Dean takes a deep breath, and all the motion leaves his body; twitching fingertips still, shifting feet plant firmly – as if it’s going to take all of his energy to say what he wants to say.

“I just … thanks.” He blurts out, finally raising his eyes to meet Sam’s. His face is an open book, and he looks like a little kid desperately seeking approval.

Sam shakes his head in wonder. “For what?” He asks it softly, like trying not to spook a wild horse.

Dean frowns, eyes shifting back to the carpet. “I… I know what you’re doing, man. I just, for being there, you know? I know it’s not … it’s not easy for you, either. To not … not to ask me. “

Dean swallows hard, grips the door frame. “Anyway, it helps, and … thanks.”

Sam eyes have that burning feeling, but he clamps it down, nodding solemnly instead. “Sure, Dean. Don’t mention it.”

Dean relaxes, nods once, throws Sam a bashful grin and disappears behind whatever safety a quarter-inch plywood door can offer.

Sam smiles, shakes his head. He feels lighter somehow. He sets down the book and leans back into the pillows with a contented sigh.

When Dean’s ready to really talk, he’ll talk. Sam can wait.

He doesn’t have anywhere else to be.


End file.
